


Iron and Ire

by VagrantWriter



Series: Iron and Blood [4]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dragons, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Torture, Redemption, comfort/hurt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-12
Updated: 2015-10-25
Packaged: 2018-04-26 03:31:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4988518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VagrantWriter/pseuds/VagrantWriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stories about the women who would have changed Theon Greyjoy's life if their paths had ever crossed.</p><p>A direct sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/3177332/chapters/6902073%20">Iron and Fire</a>.</p><p>Dany's compassion is tested when Theon's crimes come back to haunt him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> My first ever fic exchange. Yay!

“Your Grace!” The man in the gray robes jumped as she entered and slammed his book shut, as if caught in a compromising position.

He was the doctor of the Dreadfort—a maester, they called them in Westeros—a man of knowledge and healing. Daenerys found him an altogether distasteful creature. How could a man of knowledge and healing turn a blind eye to the horrors that happened here? Was it even possible he was unaware of the atrocities his formers lords had committed in this very castle?

He bowed as she entered his apothecary. “I was, er, not expecting a visit, Your Grace. How may I assist?”

She looked about the room. There was the usual fare—dried herbs and flowers hanging from the rafters, jars of powder lined along shelves, cutting implements along the wall. There were also old blood stains everywhere, and all the herbs in the world would never block out the cloying scent of rot in the air. She resisted the urge to wrinkle her nose against it. The smell of medicine always brought back…memories.

“Do you have anything to ease stomach pain?” she asked simply.

He eyed her up and down in a way that was not entirely appropriate. “Your Grace, if you are in need of moon tea…” He gestured to the assortment of jars on his shelves. “May I ask, are you experiencing the pain of your moon blood or…?”

She breathed in sharply through her nose. The truth was, she hadn’t bled since she’d miscarried, and the reminder from this man that she would never have a child from her own flesh set her off-guard. He had not meant it as a slight, she had to remind herself. It was a normal conclusion to come to for such a request.

“It’s not for me,” she answered. “One of the men who came out of the dungeons is suffering stomach pain.” To put it mildly. Theon Greyjoy had been weeping with it, writhing. He had soaked the sheets with his sweat, unable to sit up or even roll onto his side.

“Offering no disrespect, Your Grace, but you could have sent someone else to fetch this medicine.”

“And _accepting_ no disrespect,” Daenerys replied levelly, “this man is under my special protection and I would see to his recovery personally.”

“Ah.” The maester gave her that same up-and-down look, knowing. “Reek?”

“ _Theon Greyjoy_ ,” she corrected. She would not hear that name again.

“Ah, yes, of course.” The maester lifted his shoulders in an apologetic shrug, as if it were an easy mistake to make. To this man, torturing and mutilating a prisoner was normal and forcing a humiliating name on him was all the same. Truly he would have been just as at home among the Wise Masters of Astapor. She did not want such a man in her service. “I was a bit surprised to hear you had taken an interest in him. You fed him, I imagine?”

“Of course I _fed_ him,” Dany snapped. “You know what was done to him, what was done to all the prisoners here. He was tortured and near starved to death.”

Another apologetic shrug. “If he’s suffering from stomach pain, you fed him too much and too quickly.” He cast his eyes towards his shelves of medicine. “I can either induce vomiting, or he can ride out the pain. There’s not much else to do, I’m afraid.”

“You don’t have _anything_ to help him?”

He moved his gaze back to her. She would have felt dirty under his stare, but she’d faced much worse than him. There was a hint of admiration in his eyes when she didn’t flinch. “Even if there were, it would be foolish to waste it on that wretch.”

“I’ll say what’s foolish.”

He held up his hands in surrender. “I merely meant, Your Grace, that your compassion is…admirable, but perhaps misplaced. You were made aware of his crimes, yes?”

Her back stiffened at that. “He’s a turncloak, a traitor. Yes, I am well aware.”

“Ah, so you don’t know.” He shook his head. “It gives me no pleasure to tell you this,” he began, with pleasure in his voice, “but the man you’ve taken into your bed is a murderer. And not just a common one at that.”


	2. Chapter 2

“Is it true?”

Theon moaned and rolled over. It felt like there were snakes writhing in his stomach, and with the fever burning through his veins, he couldn’t be sure if the voice was real or not. Once during the night he thought he’d heard Kyra crying for help, and later he’d heard Ramsay chuckling softly into his ear. He’d screamed until gentle arms enveloped him and rocked him back to sleep.

The Targaryen woman.

Blinking blearily, he saw her now, silhouetted in the doorway, and figured she had to be real. Even in his most delirious state he wouldn’t have imagined that anyone would ever treat him with kindness again. She was beyond anything he could have conjured from his own pitiful mind.

She’d gone to get medicine. He remembered that much. It felt like a day or more had passed since she’d left, but she was here now. She was back. And she’d said something. He tried to focus on that.

He lifted his face from the sweat-soaked pillows. “Is it…true?” Was what true? Was the fever making it difficult for him to understand? His blood was pumping in his ears, but he could still hear the whisper of her slippers as she stepped over the threshold and into the room.

She spoke again. Her voice was distant and cold. “You killed the two youngest Stark children?” The glow from the fire illuminated her white hair as she came closer. “You mounted their heads on pikes and displayed them outside the castle?”

“I…” Bile welled in his throat. “Where did you hear that?”

“So, it’s true?”

He tried to sit up, but every organ in his body protested. Through gritted teeth he managed an explanation, “Th-that wasn’t me. That was…the other…” He cringed in on himself. “That was Theon Greyjoy.”

Hands were on his shoulders. Deceptively strong hands that forced him to uncurl. “ _You_ are Theon Greyjoy!”

“No.” He shook his head in denial as vehement as anything he’d offered Lord Ramsay. “I’m Reek. It rhymes with sneak. It rhymes with shriek. It—”

He was pulled from the bed, rolled more like. He grasped onto the sheets and landed with them on the floor. He held his flimsy shield to him, feeling suddenly adrift and ungrounded, even as his face was pressed against the cold stones. They burned against his skin.

“Reek and Theon Greyjoy are _the same person_.”

“No,” he protested. Those names did not belong in the same breath together. They did not belong in the same _thought_ together. “No they’re not. Theon Greyjoy is dead.”

“He’s not. He’s lying right here, right at my feet, and telling _lies_ to me.” A slippered foot kicked at his side, but there was no real force to it. Still, he whimpered. “You’re a murderer. A _child_ murderer. You _killed_ two children and hung their bodies up as a warning to everyone else.” She gasped softly, and he looked up to see her covering her mouth with her hand. The hand she’d swept through his hair not so long ago. “You’re no better than the masters of Mereen.”

“No, no, please.” It was agony, but he forced himself up to his hands and knees and grabbed for the hem of her dress. “Please, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—I didn’t want—they were—my men were—it wasn’t them!”

She yanked her dress from his trembling, mangled hands and took three steps back. In the dungeons, when she’d first seen and smelled him, she had not looked disgusted. When he’d told her, shame-faced, of his emasculation, she had not looked disgusted. When he’d woken last night, screaming and in the throes of a nightmare, she had not looked disgusted. Now… _now_ she looked disgusted. Like the sight of him churned her stomach.

“I didn’t kill the Stark children. It was the miller’s boys. Just…two common boys.”

“ _That’s_ your defense?”

“I had to…I _thought_ I had to. But it wasn’t me. It was Reek.”

“Reek, Theon Greyjoy, it doesn’t matter to me. Did you, or did you not, order two innocent boys murdered so you could keep your hold on an enemy castle?”

_The truth, tell her the truth. She’ll know if you’re lying. Just like Lord Ramsay. She’ll know. They always know. You were an idiot to think you could leave Theon Greyjoy behind you, and you were an idiot to think you could leave Reek behind you._

He sobbed and wrung the bed sheet between his hands. “I did,” he answered softly.

She drew in a deep breath. “I can’t share my bed with a child murderer.”

He tried crawling to her.

“Don’t touch me, or I’ll have you thrown back in the dungeons.”

He stayed frozen where he was, on his hands and knees, the sheets wrapped haphazardly about his waist. She would not even make eye contact with him, hugging herself and looking instead into the fire.

“I want you out of my room.”

“Please.” The need to reach out to her, for her to reach out to him, was overwhelming, but Ramsay had taught him well. He remained still and lowered his head. Supplicating. “Please, don’t send me away. I can still be useful to you. I know about the Northern houses and…”

“I don’t _want_ your help.”

“I…” He swallowed dryly. His stomach heaved with another round of cramps. It had been so long, he almost forgot what it was like to _not_ feel like he was dying. “What…are you going to do with me?”

She turned her back on him. “I don’t know. I should execute you.”

He hung his head.

“But I pity you,” she continued, so softly that at first he thought it might be his imagination. That was something he could conjure. “I pity you and…and I know that you have suffered much. Perhaps you deserve it. Perhaps not. All I know is that the sight of you sickens me now. I want you out of my room. Hide yourself somewhere away from me. If I ever see you again, I’ll feed you to my dragons.”

He nodded, even though she still had her back to him, and slunk from the room. His hands and knees were hard with calluses from the dungeons, so he hardly felt a thing as he crawled along, save for the burning and tearing in his lower stomach. He collapsed outside the door. There he pressed himself against the wall and closed his eyes. If he fell asleep here, maybe he’d wake up to find this was all a fevered nightmare. It seemed like to sort of thing that would come from his own mind, which constantly whispered _guilty, guilty_ in every silent moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not the end. There will be more, eventually.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be forewarned that this chapter contains non-graphic side effects of [gastroenteritis ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gastroenteritis) (stomach illness). I really can't think of a nicer way to put it.

“Please…” Theon was terrified to speak up, but the matter had become pressing. “I need to…could we pull over for a moment?”

The guard who’d been assigned to him glanced over. “Again?”

“I’m sorry,” he murmured in response. And he was. He didn’t want to be an inconvenience. He still couldn’t understand why the Targaryen woman had not made good on her promise to have him killed, even after she’d found him the next morning sleeping outside her doorway in his own filth. She’d wrinkled her nose and turned away and ordered him to be removed, but she had not ordered for his head to roll…or for the dragons.

She hadn’t even ordered him taken to the dungeons, so he’d been deposited in a quiet and out-of-the-way corridor to tend to his own devices. Which had consisted of spending the day over a chamber pot as his body expelled the writhing snakes from his guts. From either end. By the time someone had come looking for him, his face was covered in tears and snot, his body covered in sweat, piss, and even less savory things.

The guard had covered his nose against the smell, and Theon—was he still Theon? He felt very much like Reek—sobbed an apologetic, “I dirtied Her Grace’s clothes.” The clothes _she_ had given him, the first clothes he’d worn in…so long he couldn’t remembered.

No, the guard hadn’t come for his head then, either. It turned out they were leaving. The Dreadfort was to be burned to the ground. Nobody was to remain. They were headed for the bastion of the North, Winterfell, to shore it up before winter.

Theon had, obviously, not been back to Winterfell since he’d been taken captive. The last he’d seen, great plumes of smoke had been drifting on the wind, along with the screaming. Then a hood had been placed over his head and he’d only been able to hear the screaming. He wasn’t eager to see what it had become, but worse, he wasn’t eager to learn what memories lurked there. He’d spent so long clinging to his own name, fighting Lord Ramsay’s design for him, resisting, and now that his name was being pushed onto him from all sides, he only wanted to forget. He wanted to forget Theon Greyjoy and the things he’d done. He wanted to forget the times when he’d deliberately sought out violence and suffering, when he’d been a fool to think any of it would have done him any good.

They were on their second day of travel, and Theon could tell that his guard’s patience was running thin. Theon couldn’t keep up on foot, and so he’d been provided a pony. The animal’s jostling gait created terrible pain in his stomach, and he had to request a stop every few hours to relieve himself.

This was the third time he’d asked, and it was barely past noon. The guard rolled his eyes and pulled his horse from the line; Theon’s pony followed along, its reins tied to the other horse’s. “Very well,” the man muttered. “But make it quick.”

Theon nodded and dismounted from his pony. He made his way on awkward legs into the trees that lined the road. The guard followed, hand on his sword in case Theon should attempt an escape. He was lucky Theon had no pride left to hurt.

“You’re much more trouble than you’re worth,” the guard muttered afterwards as Theon hitched up his breeches again. “I don’t know why the Queen doesn’t just cut off your head and be done with it.” He spat on the ground. “Perhaps she intends to put you to work on Winterfell, though I don’t see what help you could offer. Useless invalid. Maybe you could fetch water for the workers. If that’s the case, lot of trouble they’re putting me through for a well bitch.”

Theon couldn’t help but agree. He fumbled to tie the rope that cinched his pants around his skinny waist.

“You know…” Theon froze at the sound of metal unsheathing. “It would be easier to be rid of you here.” The guard hefted his sword between his hands. It didn’t look like the type of blade to take a man’s head off with a single swing. “Nobody would miss you, and if they did, it’d be easy enough to tell them you succumbed to yourself illness on the road.”

Theon stood frozen as the man advanced on him. The sword glinted in the light filtering through the trees. It would be a cleaner death than he deserved, but he didn’t want to die now, here, a few steps away from his own shit. His body, always the traitor, would not do anything. He couldn’t run; he couldn’t open his mouth to argue with this man, not that he’d even know what to say to convince him he deserved to live.

He didn’t. That much was clear. He’d done terrible things, things he regretted. And Lord Ramsay had left him with a broken body and broken mind, making sure that he’d have no way to atone for these terrible things. He was useless. Worse than useless. A nuisance. A burden.

All around, the trees whispered to each other in the wind. Their leaves rustled. It hadn’t been particularly windy when they’d set out this morning…

Suddenly, the guard gave a startled yelp. Sword still in hand, he ducked low and covered his hands with his arms, as if protecting himself. Theon looked up and saw the wind—a pair of enormous leathery wings obscuring the sky, their flapping raising gusts of wind that made the trees speak. He saw scales and claws and teeth, and then the guard had turned and fled from the scene. Theon was still frozen at the dragon alit in the clearing, perhaps ten paces from where he stood.

He had not seen the dragons before, perhaps would not have believed they were real save for the sound of their roars echoing through the dungeons from the outside as the Dreadfort had fallen. This one was easily the height of the surrounding trees, with black scales that gleamed as brightly as the guard’s sword had in the light. It could fit a full-sized man into its mouth, and Theon was nowhere near a full-sized man. It sat staring at him, and he at it. Neither seemed to know what to make of the other.

“I don’t want to die,” Theon began at last.

The dragon blinked its large, serpentine eyes.

“But…” He took a shambling step forward. “I would not mind if you made it quick.” He held out his hand, the way you would to an unfamiliar dog. “I’m afraid I wouldn’t make much of a meal for you, but if you could at least see some use for me…”

The dragon blinked again and lowered its head. Despite himself, Theon flinched. It stretched out its neck, curious, and its nostrils flared. It was sizing him up, deciding if he was worth the effort to eat or not. Theon gathered his pathetic courage and took another step forward.

“I don’t mind,” he repeated.

He was close enough now that he could see his own reflection in the creature’s eyes. He didn’t recognize himself. His hair was short, his face sunken, his eyes wide with fear. It wasn’t Theon Greyjoy the dragon was seeing; it was Reek.

“Rhymes with bleak, rhymes with seek, rhymes with—”

The dragon roared.

Theon fell back on his ass, knocked over by the force and the rancid smell of rotted meat from the dragon’s scorching breath. Instinctively, he brought his hands up to shield himself, but the dragon didn’t attack. Its wings flapped and the wind stirred, and by the time Theon was brave enough to look out from between his missing fingers, the dragon had already taken off into the sky, climbing higher and higher.

Shakily, he got to his feet. “It seems I am no good, even as dragon food.”

 

***

 

They arrived at Winterfell with no further attempts on his life. The guard did not mention the incident in the woods and was glad to be rid of his charge the moment they passed through the charred gates. Theon was left to his own devices in the midst of the rubble.

He knew this place, its buildings and walls, better than he knew his birthplace. He’d practiced swordplay and archery in this very courtyard, with Robb and Jon. He’d ridden his horse in and out of these gates countless times. (Smiler was where he’d seen him last, a corpse near the stables; his body had been picked clean.) He’d cut off Mikken’s head right here, in front of everyone, executed him. Fearfully, Theon glanced up at the ramparts, but the miller’s boys’ heads had been taken down.

“No, that wasn’t me.” He hugged himself tight with his thin arms and made his away across the courtyard, unheeding of those around him and unheeded in return. “That wasn’t me. That was Theon. I’m Reek. Rhymes with creek, rhymes with weak, rhymes with…”

He stopped when he realized some deep-seated conditioning had drawn him to the kennels. There were no dogs here now, obviously, probably not even any fleas left in the hay. That meant he could be alone here, out of the way, where he belonged. He curled up in one of kennels, pressing himself as far into the corner as he could. There was no warmth to be had from the stones of the wall of the bars of the cage, but that was fine. He didn’t deserve any.

“Freak, meek, eke…”

He wasn’t sure how long he’d managed to hide himself away like that, but he must have fallen into a light doze because he was startled awake by the sound of footsteps just outside the kennels. There were voices, and despite himself, he listened.

“—stay to see the restoration complete, Khaleesi?”

Khaleesi? That was what the foreigners called the Targaryen woman.

Theon crept from the cage and peered around the corner, staying low and out of the way. He spotted her right away—her hair shining white against all the gray of ash. He bit his lip with broken teeth to keep himself from crawling to her feet and begging forgiveness. She’d already made it clear that it was not her place to forgive him; it was not _her_ he had transgressed again.

At her side were two soldiers, one of them foreign and the other an older man. Theon squinted against the setting sun, uncertain at first. But no, he’d seen that man before, the day he’d been given over to the Starks. He’d been there that day, on Pyke. Barristan Selmy? In the service of the Dragon Queen?

Lastly, the woman who had spoken, the foreign beauty the Queen had sent away the first night he’d spent in her room. He could hardly blame her for kicking out such a miserable cur in favor of this woman, if he judged the looks passed between them correctly. He could not even gather the wherewithal to be jealous. He simply laid his cheek against the doorframe and listened as they conversed.

“I will stay the night,” Daenerys said in answer to the half-heard question. “But we have received a raven from Jorah Mormont. He says the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch is dead and that an army marches on the Wall. He says the situation is dire and the Realm needs my help.”

“Do you trust his word, then?” Selmy asked.

Daenerys didn’t answer right away. “I trust that he seeks to atone for his misdeed and would not dare lie to me again. I believe he is telling the truth.”

Selmy accepted that with a nod. “Very well.” He turned to the foreign soldier. “I’ll leave it to you to gather the soldiers. The Unsullied will be no use in rebuilding a ruined castle. And for my part, I will see to gathering what able-bodied men we can spare. We will march for the Wall on the morrow.”

“Volunteers only,” Daenerys added as the two men turned to go. “I would have these people fight for me of their own will, and if not for me, then for _their_ homeland.”

“No conscription, aye,” the other man said with a nod.

“I’m glad you understand.” Daenerys returned the nod. ““We will depart at dawn.”

Theon felt something catch in his throat. Before his senses could even kick in, he shambled forward. Every head turned to see him, as he would incapable of sneaking even if he’d thought to. The foreign woman took an instinctive step back, while Selmy and the other man took a step forward, putting themselves between this creature and their Queen. Daenerys remained completely still, her eyes cold and faraway.

Selmy reached for his sword, but Theon threw himself to his knees. “Please,” he groveled, hands held out to show he was unarmed. “Take me with you…when you go.”

Daenerys arched one eyebrow. “How long have you been listening?”

He swallowed nervously. It had just now occurred to him that he was under strict orders to never be in her sight again. She’d spared him once, but that didn’t mean she would again. And worse, he had been eavesdropping, spying on the Queen and her court.

“Please,” he repeated. “I don’t know how useful I’ll be to you, but allow me to come with you to the Wall. I’ve decided.” He bowed his head low. “I want to take the Black.”


	4. Chapter 4

Jon Snow sighed and ran a hand through his hair. The Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch was a young man, but weary. Dany recognized the look of premature age on his face. “I just put a dozen traitors to the sword,” he said, leaning over his desk. “And now you want me to bring another one into the fold of our brotherhood?”

The Wall was colder than even the Dreadfort or Winterfell, and snow had begun to fall on their journey northwards. These were hard men and women who lived at the top of the world. Daenerys had seen it in the eyes of every man dressed in black furs, every woman and child dressed head to toe in animal skins. The warriors she’d brought would be able to fight, but not thrive in such a harsh environment. She did not worry about them, but she did worry about one man she’d brought, though both logic and feeling told her not to.

She straightened her back, even though the Lord Commander’s drafty office made her want to curl in on herself for warmth. She looked straight into his eyes and answered, “Theon Greyjoy’s crimes were not against your brotherhood.”

The Lord Commander eyed her up and down. She knew what he was thinking. _Who is this woman intruding into my hall, demanding these things of me_? He’d been quick enough to acknowledge her claim to the Iron Throne and address her as “Your Grace,” just as everyone else had, but he’d also made it clear that her rule ended where the Wall began.

“No,” he said at last. “But his crimes were against my family.”

Dany set her mouth thin and tight. “And _your_ family’s crimes were against _mine_.”

“There _were_ no crimes.” He stood. It was the closest he’d come to raising his voice to her, and even now she could tell he had strong words for her. “If anybody’s family is going to shoulder the burden of blood, let it be…” He paused to, wisely, reconsider that line of thought. “Let it be known that the Starks were throwing off an unjust King.”

“But a King they promised to serve nonetheless.” Daenerys continued to hold herself straight. “I have learned much about my family’s legacy, much that I had not known, since setting foot in Westeros.” _Much that Viserys neglected to mention_. “I have also come to learn, in my travels, that people must often overthrow unjust rulers in their quest for survival. So I do not begrudge your family its actions against mine, though it has caused much grief and loss for me.”

The Lord Commander’s nostrils flared. “Are you suggesting I take a similar approach for all the suffering Theon Greyjoy has caused my family?”

She’d had the long ride from Winterfell to the Wall to contemplate the issue, but even so, she needed to take another moment to contemplate it some more. “I would not justify the crimes of a child murderer,” she began slowly, “but I am given to understand that some of your…brothers have committed worse crimes than even that.”

He looked at her but could not deny it.

“I bring Theon Greyjoy to you, not as a traitor, but as a common criminal. Not as a highborn hostage, but as a man seeking redemption for his crimes.” She nodded her head slightly, acknowledging his position. “I do not want to see him put to that Red Woman’s fires.”

“I owe her my life.” He ran a hand along his chin and gave a mirthless laugh. “In a very literal sense. She brought me back from the dead. When my men…” His brows furrowed and it seemed he could not bring himself to finish. At last he said, “I do not like what she says, what she whispers in my ear. She tells me I am called Azor Ahai reborn and that I am meant to save this world. I must admit I have no explanation for why my body did not burn on its pyre, but…”

“Fire cannot burn a dragon.”

He glanced up. “What?”

She shook her head. “It’s nothing.”

They looked at each other for a second, and it seemed an entire unspoken conversation passed between them. Something like comprehension dawned on his face when at last he broke eye contact. Hurriedly, he began flipping through the papers on his desk, though this appeared to be more of a distraction than anything.

“Regardless of how I feel about the situation,” he began, “I am no longer a member of the Stark family, if I ever was to begin with. I forsook all family and political ties when I joined the Night’s Watch. My past was made blank, and the intrigues of the Realm no longer apply to me.” He gritted his teeth. “As such, I cannot deny a repentant man entrance into the Night’s Watch, especially at a time when we are so dearly in need of manpower.” He stopped fussing and finally looked up. “I will allow Theon Greyjoy to take his oath and join as a brother of the Night’s Watch. Is that suitable to you?”

“It is.”

“Good. Then, with all due respect, Your Grace, if we have nothing further to discuss…”

Not at the moment, no, though it had been a long time since anyone had dismissed _her_.

“I can see you are busy, Lord Commander. I thank you for this private consult.”

She gathered up her thick furs about her and steeled herself for the icy cold that would meet her once she left, but as she turned to go, he called out to her.

“Your Grace, if it’s not too bold of me to ask, why this interest in Theon Greyjoy?”

She had to stop and think about that as well. She’d had the same problem explaining to Ser Barristan Selmy and Daario why she had eventually forgiven Jorah Mormont. It was no easy thing to articulate. “I have seen much evil in this world, Lord Commander Snow.”

“As have I.”

“Then you’ll agree that the world doesn’t need more evil in it.”

He shook his head in agreement.

“I believe that Theon believes the same. And I believe he truly wishes to make amends for the evil he has brought into this world. I find that a far rarer thing, don’t you? And not one to be dismissed so easily.”

 

***

 

“It has been done. Your life is spared.”

Theon Greyjoy looked up at her, another man aged well beyond his years. “Thank you,” he murmured. “I do not deserve your kindness.”

“It’s not kindness,” she corrected curtly. “I am not sure you deserve another chance, but when I pulled you out of those dungeons, that’s exactly what I promised to give you, whether I knew it at the time or not.”

“Would you do it again…if you knew then?”

She was silent for another moment. “Yes,” she said. “I would not leave you, or anyone, in that place. I have seen much of the world and learned much of justice…and injustice. And I have made mistakes of my own, mistakes that have cost innocent men, women, and children their lives.” She remembered the night she’d brought him to her chambers, when he had cried out in his sleep. He’d asked then if she had nightmares, and she’d been truthful with him. “They come to me in my dreams, those I could not save. They reach out to me, screaming for help.”

“They come to me, too,” Theon Greyjoy said. “The…the people I killed at Winterfell. It was easier to block them out when I was…Reek.”

She came closer. It would not be appropriate if anyone were to see them together like this, but just as when she’d first brought him to her room, she found she couldn’t bring herself to care. She placed a gentle hand on his cheek, the first contact she’d made with him since she’d found out about his crimes. It wasn’t forgiveness, it wasn’t freedom from his past. These were not hers to give. It was merely reassurance that this was not the end.

“I release you now,” she said, “into the care of the Night’s Watch. There is no need to prove that you are repentant or worthy of this second chance. There is only you and what you can with what life has been left for you.”

A tear slid down his cheek.

She drew her hand back. “Use it wisely this time, Theon Greyjoy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry there's no big battle, but if you want to use your imagination, I suppose the final confrontation between the Wall and the White Walkers could have gone like [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qRxwBb7ev1Y).
> 
> If you're interested in how Theon fares at the wall, you can read [Transference](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3590883/chapters/7919520) even though it's not an exact sequel to this.
> 
> Thanks to everyone for reading!


End file.
